Chapter 2: Aren't We Friends Too?
Years ago, Song Tingyue’s mother brought him from out of town to Hu City to look for relatives. She had a boyfriend in the army who vanished without a trace after leaving home. The neighbors all said he’d long since died in action, but she refused to believe it. She insisted on asking around everywhere until her body gave out and she fell ill, eventually passing away.
Mother Wen was kindhearted. Seeing the boy wandering the streets alone, she brought him back to the Wen family and adopted him.
The year Song Tingyue arrived, Wen Jianing was barely over a year old, just at the babbling stage.
Who knew that before she even learned “Papa” or “Mama,” the first word she called out was—Brother.
And once she started calling him that, she kept it up for over ten years.
Song Tingyue was a full seven years older than Wen Jianing. Out of gratitude to Father Wen and Mother Wen, he doted on this little sister endlessly, practically willing to carve his heart out for her.
Afraid she’d fall if he held her in his hands, afraid she’d melt if he kept her in his mouth.
Wen Jianing loved clinging to her brother most of all. Wherever he went, she was his little tail, chattering nonstop every single day. Even her own parents got tired of her racket, and the servants had headaches over it, but Song Tingyue never found her annoying. He always smiled, scooped her into his arms, and hoisted her onto his shoulders.
But all of this.
Was ruined by Wen Jianing’s own hands.
She didn’t know when it started, but she realized she’d developed different feelings for Song Tingyue.
Looking at him, she always thought he was tall and handsome. Her heart would speed up for no reason, pounding like a drum.
A naive little girl experiencing her first crush, too full of secrets to tell anyone, so she could only write them down stroke by stroke in her diary.
But then one day, the pages where she poured out her love were torn out by someone unknown.
Right after that, she saw a female classmate Song Tingyue had once rejected showing up constantly by his side.
Shame, anger, humiliation, grievance.
All those emotions drowned her in an instant.
She didn’t dare ask him. She only felt like her secrets had been laid bare, seen, mocked.
More importantly, silently rejected.
From that day on, she turned into a hedgehog, quills raised all over, refusing to even look him in the eye.
When he carried her schoolbag, she threw it on the ground and walked off with her head turned away.
When he brought her tea, she took it, sipped once, frowned, and splashed it on the floor: “So hot! Are you trying to scald me to death?”
When he called her “Little Sister,” she snapped back furiously: “Who’s your little sister? I’d rather die than call you Brother again. You don’t deserve it!”
Her spoiled, willful young miss temper flared worse and worse. Too young to know how to watch her words, she picked the most venomous things to spit out.
Things like, “Eating our food, living in our house—who do you think you’re putting on airs for!” “If my parents weren’t kind, you’d have starved to death on the street long ago!” “Your surname is Song, mine is Wen. Do you really think you’re part of this family? Stop trying to claim us as relatives here!”...
Each sentence crueler than the last, each stab deeper than the one before, poking holes all over Song Tingyue until his heart was completely broken.
Later, Song Tingyue was found by his biological father. That father rumored to have died in action wasn’t dead at all—he’d become a big shot in the military district.
The day he left, she didn’t even see him off.
That year, he was nineteen, she was twelve.
Song Tingyue joined the army. During his leaves, he came back to Hu City a few times, always carrying bags full of gifts to visit the Wen family.
But she always hid in her room, door shut, refusing to see him.
After a while, someone who visited Shazhou brought back news. They said Song Tingyue’s father had taken in the wife and daughter of a fallen comrade-in-arms, and was planning to match his stepdaughter with his own son.
Hearing that, Wen Jianing wrote a letter and mailed it off that very night.
The letter only had a few lines: From now on, the Wen family has nothing to do with you! Don’t ever set foot in the Wen house again, and don’t let me see you either. We’ll have nothing to do with each other until we die!
Later still, the Wen family fell.
The capitalist hat was slapped on them. Her parents were detained for investigation, the family property confiscated, relatives and friends avoiding them like the plague. She went from a young miss to a capitalist’s brat everyone wanted to beat, unable to even get a bite to eat.
At their wits’ end, her parents thought of Song Tingyue.
They asked someone to write a letter to the regiment headquarters.
Wen Jianing was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, raised like a pearl in their palms. She lived in a garden villa, traveled by rickshaw, got winded walking a few steps, pampered into pure fragility. How could she endure the hardship of going down to the countryside to work?
What’s more, she was only eighteen, pretty and lovely. Father Wen and Mother Wen couldn’t bear to leave their only daughter behind, so they begged Song Tingyue to fake a marriage with Wen Jianing, get a certificate, so she could go join him at the base as a dependent. They’d watched Song Tingyue grow up, treating him like half a son. With their daughter by his side, at least someone would be looking out for her.
The reply came fast.
Song Tingyue agreed.
Wen Jianing bought a train ticket, tucked away the last bit of money she had, bounced around for days and nights, and arrived at this godforsaken place.
Before she left, her mother warned her over and over: “Once you get there, you absolutely cannot throw tantrums at your brother like you did as a child. Times have changed. He’s a Regiment Commander now. Taking you in during these special times puts enormous pressure on him. He’s only helping because of the old bond between you. You need to understand that.”
Thinking of her mother’s words, Wen Jianing’s nose stung.
Six years without seeing him. Song Tingyue was darker than before, much taller and broader. His features had lost their youthful softness, replaced by a heavy masculine edge.
“Brother.” She called out again.
“I know I treated you badly before, but I... I really have nowhere else to go. If you’re still upset, I’ll apologize to you right here.”
She kept her head down, fingers twisting the hem of her cotton shirt back and forth. “If that’s not enough, I’ll kowtow to you.”
Song Tingyue’s brows pressed down. He raised a hand and dug at his ear.
Why did that sound so damn weird?
He knew this little girl’s temper inside out since she was small. Sure, her mouth was saying “you” respectfully, but who knows how bitter she was inside. She’d probably already cursed him out several rounds in her head.
As a kid, she’d complain about being tired after two steps, reaching out to be carried, to be piggybacked.
Now her family had fallen apart, she’d ridden a train for days and nights, bounced around for hours more to get here, and hadn’t made a peep or shed a tear.
Song Tingyue glanced at her.
Her pale, scallion-white little hands had two red marks dug in by the bag straps. Her lower back was so sore she kept wanting to bend over, sneaking in a couple light punches with her fist when no one was looking, then quickly standing straight again. Her little mouth puckered, looking like she wanted to cry but didn’t dare. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she bit her lip hard and forced the tears back.
A total delicate flower. Managing to hold it in this long was impressive.
He couldn’t be bothered arguing with a kid anymore. He twisted off his fountain pen cap, scratched the three characters for “Wen Jianing” onto a piece of stiff cardboard, and shoved it toward her: “Skip the kowtow. Save me from losing lifespan. Keep your entry pass safe, don’t lose it. The sentries check it at the gate. Lose it, and you deal with the consequences yourself.”
“Come put your luggage away first, then I’ll take you to the mess hall.”
“I’m not hungry.” Wen Jianing had zero appetite.
“Hungry or not, you eat. A man is iron, rice is steel. Mealtime means eating. On my turf, you follow my rules.”
Song Tingyue stood up as he spoke, his gaze landing on her thin, delicate chin.
His tone was stiff and hard.
Wen Jianing’s heart ached. He used to spoil her the most, even lowering his voice to speak softly.
But right now...
She tilted her head up, looking at the man standing a full head taller than her. Broad shoulders, thick back, standing there like a wall. His training uniform was stretched tight, the muscle lines underneath perfectly clear.
Her eyes swept over the scars on the back of his hand, then returned to his sharp brows and eyes, ground rugged by wind and sand.
It was clearly the same face from her memories, yet everything seemed different.
Wen Jianing lowered her eyes, a mix of feelings churning inside.
Just as she bent to grab her luggage off the ground, a hand suddenly cut in, lifting the duffel bag and suitcase at the same time with one arm. That solid arm was roped with veins, visibly packed with strength.
Song Tingyue walked ahead without looking back, spitting out two words: “Keep up.”
His legs were long, one stride equaling two of hers. Wen Jianing jogged to catch up, resting her hand on the duffel bag, polite and courteous: “Thank you, I can handle it myself.”
Before sending her off, her mother had also told her to sweeten her mouth when out in the world, to read the room, and to pack away all her young miss airs entirely.
Plus that phrase repeated over and over: Times have changed.
Song Tingyue used to be the one living under someone else’s roof. Now the roles were reversed. She was the one who had to live by reading other people’s expressions.
Song Tingyue strode forward, completely ignoring her politeness: “Solving problems for civilians is a soldier’s duty. Carrying a bag isn’t some huge deal. Those few steps from the train to the registration desk earlier—you lifted twice and panted three times. At that snail pace, it’d be dark by the time you dragged yourself to the dorms.”